


Severus Snape and the Unwelcome Student

by Vixenmage



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Potions Accident, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:23:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7870051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vixenmage/pseuds/Vixenmage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry can't stand the idea of Remus spending the full moon every month in chains. Every bit his father's son, he decides to fix the problem himself, in classic Gryffindor fashion, and he would've gotten away with it, too! The best-laid plans of Gryffindors and Slytherins go awry, though, and Severus Snape had plans this summer, for pity's sake, all ruined now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The best-laid plans...

**Author's Note:**

> “It’s a letter from my godfather,” said Harry cheerfully.  
> “Godfather?” sputtered Uncle Vernon. “You haven’t got a godfather!”  
> “Yes, I have,” said Harry brightly. “He was my mum and dad’s best friend. He’s a convicted murderer, but he’s broken out of wizard prison and he’s on the run. He likes to keep in touch with me, though… keep up with the news… check if I’m happy…”  
> And, grinning broadly at the look of horror on Uncle Vernon’s face, Harry set off toward the station exit, Hedwig rattling along in front of him, for what looked like a much better summer than the last…

Harry shrugged a sweater on and pulled the hood over his head – it was broad daylight, and Aunt Petunia would’ve had a fit if she’d seen him going about in a hoodie, but he very much didn’t want anyone noticing him right now, especially his scar. He glanced around and, feeling rather foolish, stuck his right arm out towards the street, then leapt back expectantly… only to continue feeling foolish, as the street showed no signs of sprouting a magical vehicle.

It was a few minutes before the Knight Bus appeared in the street, purple and enormous and staring. The door swung open, and Stan Shunpike bounced out. "Well! We don't often see customers out here, do we, Ernie? It'll be one galleon, young sir, step smart now!"

Harry blinked at the strange conductor, shook his head, and reached into his purse. He wouldn't have any idea how to get to Diagon Alley himself, so he might as well.

As he stepped off the bus, he swung the hood of the cloak over his head, cowl even lower than the hood of his sweater had been. It wouldn’t completely hide him, but it wouldn’t hurt to have something between him and the world in Diagon Alley. His first stop was the bank, where he withdrew what he thought was probably enough to suit his needs – then to the shops.

Flourish and Blotts would have their potion textbook for the coming year, but despite the teller’s efforts, that wasn’t what Harry was looking for: he needed a search of his own. He peered through the potions books one after the other, glancing at the chapter heads of each one that looked likely. A shadow caught his eye as he flicked through the pages of one of them, but when he looked up, it was only the shop girl, walking past the aisle.

For some reason, he didn’t want to tell anyone what he was doing. Just in case – it seemed like a dangerous thing to let onto for an underage wizard. He looked through the books on his own for what felt like hours on hours before the right potion showed up on the page. Grinning, he picked the book up and stood – the grin disappearing from his face as he saw the sinister cover, and the title, _Dark Masques: Drafts for the Undaunted_. Great, just what he needed: to be seen buying a dark wizard’s book. No cure for it. He brought the book up to the counter, paid for it, and headed to the _Leaky Cauldron_ to read for a while.

An hour’s careful study found him in Knockturn Alley, a smudge of dirt over his forehead and cheek, and his wand secured to the inside of his right sleeve. He took a few turns, and stopped in front of a dingy window, lined with dusty cauldrons and bottles of various shapes and sizes. A sign just above the door in faded copper leaf proclaimed the store “The Sealed Flask.”

There were a few torches on the wall, but most light seemed to come through the dirt-filmed window. Harry crossed the creaking floor, weaving between a narrow, forking aisle of shelves filled with bottles, bags, and jars. The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow.

“Can I help you?”

He handed the man his list, wordlessly.

“Dibellium leaf, Acromantula venom, Glinder moss, Canis Tapium root, Amanita Leonine, Kappa blood, and… Erumpent horn?”

Harry shrugged. “Just a supply run,” he muttered. He’d bought a Pepper-up potion and a charmed tablet in Diagon Alley to disguise his voice, but it still worried him.

The man across the counter, a scarred old wizard with a dangerous look in his eyes, shrugged and turned back to his shelves. “Just be a moment,” he said. “That’ll be forty-two galleons.”

Harry blanched under his cowl. He didn’t actually need the Dibellium leaf or the Kappa blood, but he’d thought it a bad idea to purchase only the ingredients necessary, in case anyone figured out what he was making. In any case, he realized, as he looked at the shelf again, it was the Erumpent horn that was driving the price so high. He’d have to figure out a cheaper way to get it, or find a substitute.

As he pulled his purse out, he immediately remembered something, and paused, his hand absently twirling a gold piece. “Forty-two is a little high, isn’t it?” He glanced at the scale. “How about thirty? That’s still well enough for everything, down at Loacher’s,” he said, trying to remember where else he’d considered buying.

The dour man glared over his shoulder. “Oh, yes. You could spend that at Loacher’s, if you wanted to buy Doxy droppings instead of Erumpent Horn, and mud instead of Glinder moss. But we happen to use quality ingredients here, which drives the price up. If you can’t afford forty galleons, you might as well go.”

The door creaked behind him, and Harry sighed inwardly. He didn’t want to spend any more time here than he had to, especially if there was a risk of being seen. “Thirty-five seems fair, especially for the quality of the Kappa blood this far from Japan,” he replied, as the man put several parcels on the counter.

Sneering, the older wizard leaned across the counter. “And were you intending to go to Japan for it instead?” he asked. “Thirty-nine. No lower.”

Harry knew he should bargain further, but this place was creeping him out. He handed the thirty-nine galleons over, careful not to show anything more in his purse, and swept the packages into the sack at his hip. There was a taller man browsing the aisles as he turned to go, but he kept his head down and left the shop without incident, trying to ignore the feeling of eyes on his back.

The rest of the ingredients were far simpler, and he left Diagon Alley lighter in purse, but finally with everything he needed. When he finally sat down on the Knight Bus to attach the straps to his backpack again, turning it from a sack to a muggle-acceptable accessory, he realized it was hours later than he’d expected. He’d be late for supper – Aunt Petunia would be furious! With a groan, he sank back in his seat, considering his plan B. 

He hid his backpack in one of the shrubs outside the front step before coming in.

“And just where have you been?” The voice froze him in his tracks. Aunt Petunia was standing at the kitchen door, staring at him, her eyes narrowed.

His stomach tightened, and he forced himself to reply quickly, as he’d practiced on the bus: “I was out looking for a job, and didn’t realize how far from home I’d gotten.”

His aunt stared at him for a long moment, before she reached forward, lightning-quick, and grabbed his ear, pulling him in through the door. “A likely story! At your age, in this neighborhood? And what are you good for, anyway?”

“Well, I thought not here, but—”

“I won’t be told lies in my own house, boy! There’s dishes to be done and it’s straight to bed with you after, if you can’t get yourself home in time for supper, you shan’t have any!”

He scurried into the kitchen, dodging Dudley’s outstretched foot on the way; Dudley, disappointed, followed him in and pushed him over on his way to the fridge. As Harry dusted himself off and wiped the pans, the only thought in his mind was that he’d need to do the other supply run quicker, the next time. Sooner or later someone would find his backpack if he didn’t get better at this. And Lupin would be counting on him.

 

*                      *                      *

 

The beetle wings were crushed, but not powdered; the sulfur had been carefully pulverized in the mortar and pestle. He had to do the last step downstairs – it had to be added to the potion within two minutes. Carefully gathering the supplies, he listened at the door for a moment before opening it carefully, glancing to either side, and slipping down to the cupboard.

He crouched to get through the door and turned to close it. It always bothered him that he had to block the bottom of the door out with a piece of cloth before he lit the candle, but he couldn’t risk turning the light on. A moment to push the coats out of the way, and he sank back, cross-legged, to look at the potion. He grinned; the potion was exactly where it should be. Dark blue, foaming slightly around the edges. He plugged the little electric burner into the portable battery and glanced down at his watch – two minutes, then the sulfur, a pinch at a time between stirs….

It had been a successful night – fortunately. He couldn’t really afford any setbacks, with the full moon in less than a week. Just the whetu-marama to add now. He poured the little sack of plump berries out onto the board and picked up the needle he’d brought.

They were dark grey, matte as he started, and rather unappealing, but when the skin was slipped off, the inside was revealed to be a faintly luminous pale blue, smelling of something sharp and icy. He drew a breath – he’d never seen anything like it. But they had to be into the potion in two minutes, before they started to dry out. He went through the whole sack quickly, then tipped them into the cauldron at once, pulling the burner out from under the cauldron immediately.

There was a loud crackling noise, and he scrambled backwards as the huge green sparks began to leap out of the cauldron, like an oversized firecracker. He stared at the cauldron – he couldn’t do a spell to keep it quiet – couldn’t throw anything over the potion to muffle the sound—

Loud footsteps on the stairs. His heart pounding, Harry snuffed the candle out and huddled behind the coats. _Don’t open the door, don’t open the door, don’t look in here…_

“Probably just the fuses,” he heard Vernon grumbling.

He risked a glance back at the cauldron – nothing had caught fire, yet. The crackling noises were finally starting to subside, too – he stopped holding his breath.

The door opened.

“No, darling, it’s coming from in here! Is there something plugged in?” Absurdly, Harry froze perfectly still behind the rack of winter coats, hoping she somehow wouldn’t see him—

In an instant, the closet was flooded with light as Petunia reached up and turned the light on, then pushed the coats aside with one outstretched hand.

There was an awful silence, broken only by the sputtering of the potion.

Petunia, white-faced, stared at him. He heard Vernon coming down the hall.

“Petunia, what is—” he stopped, staring past her shoulders into the closet where Harry had lived the first eleven years of his life.

Harry could feel his heart pounding. Vernon’s face was growing red – after a moment, he pushed past Petunia and reached forward, grabbing Harry by the front of his shirt.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” he shouted, yanking him forward, angrily.

Harry kicked wildly for a moment, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the floor. Immediately, he felt his foot connect with something, and there was a loud, awful clanging noise, followed by a loud splash as Vernon dragged him out of the closet.

He reached out and grabbed the doorframe, struggling to pull his wand out – something caught fire behind him, with a roar.

Aunt Petunia screamed, her voice ringing in his ears. “Vernon, _do something_!”

Harry wrenched free of his uncle’s grasp, his old shirt tearing in his uncle’s hands – he was flung across the closet, and tumbled into the wall, as the fire engulfed the far end of the closet entirely.

He pointed his wand across, panting, and shouted, “ _Aguamenti_!”

The front door immediately slammed open, and the room seemed to be full of people shouting and throwing punches and spells. Harry pulled himself out of the closet and raised his wand, trying to put himself between the intruder and his aunt and uncle. A hooded wizard whirled on him too fast to block, shouting “ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ” He slammed up against the wall, his wand clutched tightly, immobile and useless.

Futilely, he watched the scene unfold. Vernon went to throw another punch, and the wizard stepped to one side and tripped him – then cast another _petrificus totalus_ before turning to Petunia.

“Go ahead,” a familiar voice sneered, dripping with scorn. “Give me a reason, Petunia.”

Harry had never heard his aunt sound so shocked, so taken aback. Out of the corner of his eye – he couldn’t turn his head – he saw her blanch.

“ _You_ ,” she whispered, somewhere between horrified and furious. She caught her breath, then rallied. “How _dare_ you, Severus! Get out of my house! NOW!”

Harry couldn’t see the other man’s face, but the familiar sarcasm told him all too certainly that Professor Severus Snape was smirking as he replied, simply, “No.”

He added over his shoulder, as he turned back to Harry and the closet, “And if you make another move towards me, Petunia, I will immobilize you, as well.”

She was shaking with rage, he saw, but she made no further moves. Snape swept his cloak back. His cold black gaze raked over Harry, ingredients on his hands and pyjamas, potion splashed across his upper body, shirt torn nearly off where Vernon had grabbed him, and bruises starting to form from the brief scuffle.

“Mr. Potter,” he said quietly, voice dripping with scorn. “Not content with expulsion from school, I see. You have decided to try for Azkaban?”

Harry was glad he was immobilized, and couldn’t reply. Snape stepped past him, ducking into the closet, and took in the scene. After a moment, his voice drifted out into the hallway:

“Did you truly just try to put out a potion-caused fire with an _Aguamenti_ charm, Potter? Have you ever heard a word in one of my classes?”

Still immobilized, Harry could only think, _It worked, didn’t it? And I knew it would, because the volatile ingredients were collagen-based, not oil-based, you bullying git._

There was a scraping noise, and a bang, and then the cauldron levitated out into the hallway and sank gently down onto the floor, followed by the irritable professor. There was still some Wolfsbane left in the bottom, Harry saw, though obviously far too diluted by the water, not to mention whatever effects the fire had had, to be usable. Snape bent over it, gesturing with his wand, and a thin stream rose into the air, spinning. He examined it closely for a moment, then vanished the batch and sent a sharp glance at Harry.

“I should have known,” he muttered. “You _idiot_ of a Gryffindor.” He sighed deeply and stepped back into the closet. “ _Evanesco_.” After a moment, he stepped back out, handful of whetu-marama skins in hand, and dropped them into the cauldron. He flicked the closet light off with his wand, shut the door, and looked back at Harry. “Potter. How dangerous is this man? Assuming poor taste runs in the family—” this was punctuated by a disbelieving snort from Aunt Petunia— “I assume he’s a violent, arrogant fool.”

Harry rolled his eyes, unable to do more from his position in the body-bind. Snape made a motion with his wand, releasing him.

“He may try to slug you again. But probably not. If you release him, he’ll threaten you, but he won’t do more to an armed man.”

Snape gave him a sharp look, but waved his wand nonetheless, releasing Vernon. He stalked back out of the house, through the front door, and there was a flash of silvery white light and a low voice, speaking over a resonant hum. Harry slumped against the wall, relief, fear, and rage cycling through him in rapid succession. He’d just closed his eyes when a thick hand closed over his throat.

“Aaah!” He flailed, trying to push Vernon off, but to no avail. His uncle, red with fury, raised him up off the floor, then flung him across the hall.

“You – you, you FREAK!” he shouted, aiming a kick at Harry’s body. The first connected, but Harry managed to scramble up and back out of the way of the second. Petunia looked as if she wanted to intervene, casting fearful looks at the door, but only grabbed at Vernon’s arm ineffectually.

“We take you in! Feed you! Clothe you! And you put us in danger, you— ABOMINATION!” he roared, yanking Harry bodily up again and shoving him against the wall.

There was another loud series of bangs, and the pressure was abruptly removed from Harry’s throat and chest. Snape stood in the door, a howling wind behind him, face frozen in a mask of rage, his wand pointed at Vernon, now paralyzed against the wall again. He looked at Harry for a moment, then back at Vernon, and again, at Petunia.

“Petunia,” he said. “The headmaster would like a word.”

There was a soft pop, and Dumbledore stepped past him into the house, taking in the scene in a moment. He shook his head.

“This is folly,” he said quietly. “I would have expected better from all of you. I think we should be far better off sitting down to tea in the living room than having a standoff in the front hall, don’t you?”

“Headmaster,” Snape replied, “The muggle there has both attacked me on sight, and immediately attacked Mr. Potter when my back was turned. If you remove the spell, I have no reason to believe he won’t simply resume hostilities, or shouting, or both.”

Dumbledore inclined his head, acknowledging the point. “Very well. Severus, you and I shall join Petunia and Harry for tea. Vernon will remain here.” And, without another word, he strode into the living room, reaching over to flip on the switch with one hand, and conjuring a floating tray of tea with the other.

Harry and Snape followed him, with Petunia at some distance behind them. He smiled at each of them and conjured a comfortable-looking armchair for himself.

“Please,” he said finally, “sit. We can surely discuss this in rational terms before we need to involve the government.”

Each of them sat, and Dumbledore looked for a long moment at all three of them.

“Harry,” he said gravely, “That was both truly noble, and utterly foolish.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Harry burst out. “I could hardly just let him suffer, and it wasn’t like Snape was going to keep making him the potion when he didn’t have to!”

“Not that I would expect you to understand this, Potter, but I have, in fact, continued making the Wolfsbane potion.”

Harry had not had time to react to this when Petunia cleared her throat. “I don’t suppose anyone’s going to bother to explain any of this to an ignorant outsider,” she said huffily. “I do know how you lot keep your secrets. But whatever it is, either make him stop, once and for all, or _get him out of my house_.” She pointed at Harry, refusing to look any of the three of them in the eyes. “I will NOT have a dangerous mutant causing accidents around my son!”

“I’m not a—” Harry began, but Dumbledore cut him off.

“We cannot remove Harry from your house permanently,” he said. “But I believe a solution can be worked out to the satisfaction of all parties.” He turned to Snape, his gaze serious. “Severus, tell me. How did you work out that Harry was making Wolfsbane potion?”

Snape frowned at him. “It was obvious,” he said, keeping the disdain out of his voice. “I don’t know how he managed it, as he has always been abysmal in my classes, but it was one step from the final potion, and no worse than the average bottle sold in shops. Not half as good as mine, obviously, but perfectly recognizable.”

“I see,” Dumbledore replied. “Harry, how did you manage the potion?”

Harry glared hotly at Snape. “I’m _not_ abysmal in Potions,” he said, “He just hates me. I get points taken off no matter how good my potion is.” Dumbledore waited patiently, saying nothing, and Harry sighed. “I bought a book in Diagon Alley, and the ingredients, and then I made it after moonrise but before Venus had reached apex, just in the closet. That’s all.”

“You get points taken off for attitude,” Snape muttered. “For obvious reasons.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said, a twinkle in his eye, “But his _aptitude_ is clearly just fine, wouldn’t you say, Severus? He is Lily’s son, after all.”

There was an incredibly irritated noise from Petunia, which the three wizards ignored.

“When properly motivated, apparently, Potter is capable of achieving acceptable results,” Snape bit out. “That much is true.”

Dumbledore smiled. “Then it’s settled. Harry, you’ll be conducting all future attempts with Severus, and leaving everything but Hedwig with him until you leave for Hogwarts.”

“ ** _What_**?!” Harry, Snape, and Petunia stared at the Headmaster, speechless.

“Professor, I can’t! He—”

“Albus, you cannot be serious.” Snape interrupted him. “I refuse!”

Petunia broke in, “I want no one in my family having anything to do with – that man – ever again!” She spat the words at Dumbledore without so much as looking at Snape. “He’s dangerous!”

Snape whirled, glaring at her openly. “I’m dangerous? Your oaf of a husband just threw an unarmed teenager across the room and broke two of his ribs!”

“You and Lily—” she stopped abruptly.

Harry looked back and forth between them. Petunia was furious; Snape was, if anything, angrier. If Dumbledore hadn’t been there, they would have been on their feet and screaming. At that long, silent moment, though, Dumbledore was looking at him, his gaze grave.

“Harry, you would learn much from Severus. And I’m afraid that if you will not comply, your belongings will be forfeit until the start of the year, regardless. Your aunt’s demands are one thing, but the Ministry will not turn a blind eye to this situation, whatever I tell them.”

Petunia’s mouth firmed into a thin line. “I don’t care. Forfeit his things. All of them! He will _not_ go anywhere near whatever filthy hovel you live in, Severus!”

Snape was white-faced, angrier than Harry had ever seen him – even the night Sirius had gotten away. He stood abruptly, staring at Petunia. He opened his mouth, but caught sight of Dumbledore, watching him intently from across the room.

“Potter,” he spat, not taking his eyes off Petunia. “Get your things. The headmaster will prepare a statement for the Ministry.”

Harry considered for a moment – living with Severus Snape. For two weeks out of the month – that was how long the Wolfsbane took. The rest of the summer. He looked down at his wand, and imagined not having it back until Hogwarts; he looked up at the tableau of the living room, where Snape and Aunt Petunia were still locked in an enraged gaze.

He stood up, without another word, and Dumbledore’s eyes, far kinder, caught his. He winked, and Harry almost smiled back.

“Alright,” he said.

*                      *                      *

 

Dumbledore was the one who unfroze Vernon, as Harry and Snape stood at the door, trunk and cauldron and owl collected. He was purple in the face by now, and he stood shaking with impotent rage as Dumbledore calmly explained that Harry was going to spend a few weeks out of each month gone, with Severus.

He pointed a shaking finger at Harry. “Good riddance! As far as I’m concerned, he isn’t coming back! I’ll lock the door, Tunia, and we’ll be free of him forever!”

Dumbledore frowned. “I will not allow that. Neither you, nor Harry, will be safe if he leaves this house for good.”

Vernon leaned forward, breathing heavily. “Are you threatening me? That’s illegal, you—”

“He speaks only truth,” Snape interrupted. “Powers more dangerous than you realize are massing, and your blood relation to Harry is all that protects you.”

Both the Dursleys blanched; Vernon growled. “Fine, then! Take him! But don’t expect a warm welcome, boy!”

Snape opened the door, and without another word, Harry and Dumbledore followed him out; it shut behind them with a bang.

“Harry and I will follow you to Spinner’s End, Severus,” Dumbledore said. “I’ll give you a few moments to take down your wards.”

There was a noise like two stones colliding, and Snape disappeared. Dumbledore turned to Harry, and there was a long pause.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry said, finally. “I thought it would be alright, since there’s no spells involved, and I – I just wanted to help Professor Lupin.”

“It was a noble thought, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “But our actions often have consequences far beyond our intentions. It is of dire importance that you begin to consider this fact more carefully, my boy.”

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to say more.

“I will see to it that your aunt and uncle allow you to return, and explain to the Ministry that you were putting out a fire that threatened the house – technically quite true.” He reached for Harry’s hand, then paused. “Professor Snape will not do you bodily harm, but I advise you to try and be courteous – I know much bad blood has passed between you in the past.” With that, he disapparated, pulling Harry alongside.

The house that Aunt Petunia had described as a “filthy hovel” was indeed quite run-down, but otherwise looked alright, from what Harry could see in the dark. Far more interesting than Privet Drive, at any rate. Dumbledore gave Snape a nod, and disappeared again.

“I didn’t know you knew my aunt.”

Snape glanced at him, his eyes shadowed. “The things you do not know could fill volumes, Potter. Perhaps you should remember that in the future, before you embark on dangerous and futile experiments.” He unlocked the door and pushed it open, lighting the sconces in the narrow hallway with a wave of his wand. Harry followed him in, swallowing nervously as his trunk bumped over the threshold.

“She always yelled at me for being too much like my mum,” he said quietly. “She called my mum a freak, and said I’d meet an unnatural end someday, like her.” Snape half-turned in the dark room behind the hallway, but said nothing. “You tell me I’m too much like my dad, not a freak but the opposite, too brash and too feckless, too Gryffindor.”

“You are,” Snape bit off shortly. He turned and shut the door behind Harry with a wave of his wand.

“Which? How can I be both?”

Snape glared at him for a moment, then looked away. “Your aunt is a cowardly shrew,” he said. “She chose not to get to know her sister, and never knew your father either. She has no idea what she’s talking about most of the time. I suppose,” he finished, waving his wand to light the rest of the sconces, “that it’s no wonder you turned out as you did, after ten years in her household.”

There was a long pause as Harry tried to process this. Snape turned away.

“Absent any notice of your arrival, I have not prepared a room,” he said, as if Harry had simply rudely failed to inform him of the impending crisis. “At the top of the stairs, there is a hall. The room on the end is mine, and, obviously, off-limits. There is a store-room on the right, and a study on the left. The bed comes out of the closet. We’ll discuss further rules in the morning.”


	2. Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry suffers through the first session at Snape's house. Or perhaps vice versa.

Harry woke terrified, unsure of where he was or what was going on – nothing was familiar, and there was a cold – oh. Heart slowing, he took deep breaths and stared at the opposite wall as the tight grip of panic subsided and memory returned. The footsteps padding swiftly past the door returned him to a state, and he sat bolt upright, casting about for clothes before Snape came in to shout him awake, he was surely late and hadn’t made breakfast and didn’t know what Snape would take with his tea or what time he was supposed to have it ready…

The footsteps subsided, and he heard another door open and close. He slowly straightened again, taking deep breaths. After a moment, he threw on the muggle clothes that happened to be on top of his suitcase, taking pause to adjust the careful safety pin-work that kept them from looking like a set of poorly-fitted robes on him. A pair of trainers, his glasses, and he carefully checked outside the door before stepping out into the hall and walking down the stairs.

He was down in the living room, trying to figure out whether he should try and make tea first after all, or wait for instructions, when Snape slipped down the stairs and caught up with him. Harry inwardly grinned, despite his unease –the first time in his life he’d actually been relieved to see Severus Snape. Perhaps guessing his thoughts, Snape glared at him as he swept past into the kitchen. Harry followed him, unobtrusively hanging by the doorway as he readied a teapot and pair of mugs.

“I assume you take tea in the mornings, Potter,” he said, glancing over at him. A pause. “What in the world are you wearing?”

“Er – muggle clothes, sir,” Harry stammered. “I do, not usually in the summer, but it would be good—” he caught himself, and stopped. Snape glanced over again, rolled his eyes, and poured the water, apparently enchanted to boil immediately. He handed one of the mugs (plain, dark grey) to Harry and stalked into the living room. Harry followed awkwardly and sat down.

They both drank their tea in complete silence, Harry trying to think of something to say, failing, and wondering how on earth he was meant to survive an entire summer of this. Finally, after an unimaginably awkward period, Snape sighed.

“Of course the Headmaster has ordered a guard on your residence,” he said, unexpectedly breaking the silence. “You might have guessed as much, but since you clearly did not, you may as well be told now.  Arabella was away for a holiday, which is the only reason I was on duty. I was not, to put your mind at ease, simply stalking your aunt’s house last night.”

Harry choked on his tea, calmed himself, and nodded. “I didn’t think you were. I… didn’t really have time to think about why you were there.” Snape looked at him for a moment, disdain etched across his features like a sign – as if he would have asked such questions, had he been in Harry’s shoes. Harry stifled the urge to point out that they couldn’t all be Snape, perfectly observant all the time, and drank tea instead. Snape stood and left the room, and again Harry scrambled to follow him.

“I do not have an unlimited amount of time with which to teach you,” Snape said, putting his teacup down in the sink. “But I believe there are some lessons which you should receive before going further into this quest to… find the most dangerous possible potion, unaided, in enemy territory.” He strode past Harry into the little makeshift study they’d passed last night. Harry hastily downed the rest of his own tea, scalding his throat a bit, and put it down next to Snape’s before following.

“The most sensible time to teach you will be at dusk, giving us some time to discuss the theory behind the potion before night falls,” he continued, sitting down in the armchair. “Therefore, you will meet me in the potions lab at the bottom of the stairs at dusk each night. Do not be late. Every other door in the cellar is off limits, unless I give you explicit instructions otherwise. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir,” Harry replied.

“The garden behind the kitchen is also off limits, as is my bedroom. I will not tolerate you trespassing throughout this house when my back is turned. Are we clear, Potter?”

Harry nodded. “Yes sir.” He couldn’t imagine Snape could be much nastier to him here than he was at Hogwarts – but then, here, he’d have no one else to answer to for his actions. Far better to be on the safe side.

“Good. I may be gone for long stretches of time, but my instructions still stand. To supplement your lessons and make more time for instruction, there will be additional tasks related to ingredient preparation. In this, I would prefer thoroughness over speed, as I will be using the ingredients myself, and they can be rather costly to replace.”

Again, Harry nodded. Snape glanced at him sidelong, as if he’d expected more protest.

“As much as I hate to say this, you will need to use your father’s cloak. If I could ban your so much as bringing it to Hogwarts, I would, but for several reasons, it will not do for you to be seen coming and going from this house.” Briefly, Harry debated pointing out that he’d used the cloak to defeat Voldemort – twice – but said nothing. No point provoking his unwilling host so early in the month. “To anyone’s knowledge outside, you are staying somewhere in the Headmaster’s purview, and will return to your aunt’s house presently, for the rest of the summer. If you leave the house, or even lounge in the yard, do so with the Invisibility cloak on.”

Harry frowned. “Even in the yard? Who’s going to see me?”

Snape sighed. “Potter, it would take far too long to explain. You will simply have to trust the Headmaster’s and my judgment on this. There is one other instruction.” He paused for a moment, looking away, then sighed. “In the event that I receive a visitor, you are to put the cloak on immediately. If there is time, get up to your room, and stay there until I give you word to leave. This is of the _utmost_ importance. It is as much for your safety as mine. Keep it on your person at all times.”

The words washed over him, familiar as rain. Do not be seen – do not embarrass us – do not let anyone know we are associated. He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Snape looked at him suspiciously. “I truly cannot stress how vital this is,” he repeated. “If you follow no other instructions of mine, follow those. Your very presence here creates an undesirable compromise of confidence, and it is _imperative_ that you not be seen.”

“I get it,” Harry said. “Be invisible to everyone but you, at all times. Yes. Okay.”

“Don’t tell your friends where you are, either.”

At this, Harry began to get angry – he glared at Snape. “You know, I didn’t choose to be here! I’m sorry it inconveniences you, but Ron and Hermione aren’t going to give away your unwanted guest to any social callers!”

Snape immediately responded in kind, dark eyes flashing with fury. His voice remained quiet, though. “As I recall, Potter, you _did_ choose to be here. You could very well have chosen to stay in comfort and ease at your aunt’s house for the entire summer, yet you came here.”

“You know what I mean.”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t.” Snape looked at him again, gaze boring straight into him. “You loathe me, perhaps almost as much as I, you. Your aunt’s house may be boring, but it is safe. You knew at that point that Remus Lupin was still getting his Wolfsbane potion.” He stared down at Harry, eyes narrow and intent. “Why come here? Simply to torment me with an extra few weeks of your presence? You are a guest in the house of the man you hate most, and you cannot defend yourself from me with magic. Are you so desperate for potions instruction?”

Harry shrugged, then thought about it a moment. Why _had_ he agreed to this? He thought back to last night. Losing his wand, everything but Hedwig, all summer; a summer with the Dursleys, angrier than usual, and no defense. But it was something else – he remembered the rage in Aunt Petunia’s face as she had stared at Snape.

“I didn’t want to stay in that house all summer again,” he said. “I’ve never had a choice before. And… well, I was curious.” The last sentence came out before he could stop it, and he closed his mouth abruptly.

“Curious?” Snape watched him, his own look blank.

“Aunt Petunia hates you. I know why she hates me – but she _knew_ you. It wasn’t just the way she looks at all wizards. I guess I figured, a summer with the Dursleys after that, locked in my room all day every day, or staying with someone who my aunt thinks is almost as much of a waste of breath as me.” It was, Harry thought, as close as he would likely ever get to admitting that anyone his aunt hated that much couldn’t possibly be as bad as he seemed.

Snape sighed, apparently disappointed. “Of course. Contrariness. I should have known,” he said. “Regardless, you did make this choice. The headmaster did not force your hand. One consequence is that you may not breathe a word of it to Weasley or Granger. Or anyone else. If I need to make you swear an Unbreakable Vow, I will.”

“Dumbledore won’t—”

“On this matter, Dumbledore will be on my side.” Snape looked at Harry; his mouth set in a firm line, he sighed. “You leave me no choice.”

“No!” Harry jumped to his feet. “I won’t tell them! You don’t need to—”

“Calm yourself, Potter,” Snape said, a sneer to his voice. “I am restricting access to your owl. If she leaves the immediate area, I will know immediately, and will take steps to stop her. I would not have severed your ties to your friends, as Dumbledore does not generally approve, but given your known disdain of authority, I obviously cannot believe a word out of your mouth.”

Harry shook his head wildly. “You don’t have to! I won’t tell them, I swear!” As much as it hurt to have to keep something a secret from Ron and Hermione, he couldn’t bear the thought of not being able to write to them at all.

The potions master looked at him, his eyes distant, and then he shook his head. “No. You may even mean it, right now. But a time will come when you are angry, for one reason or another, or some situation will arise, or you have made some foolish decision, and you will take matters into your own hands, as you always do. And, once again, for whatever novel reason appeals to you, it will be imperative that you break your word and defy authority, _yet again_.”

“I won’t! I promise!”

Snape shook his head. “Remus Lupin had to confiscate that confounded map to stop you going into Hogsmeade to play pranks, when you knew a murderer was looking for you, specifically.”

“He wasn’t looking for me!”

Snape raised an eyebrow. Harry sighed, and hung his head. It was true – he hadn’t known that, at the time, and it hadn’t made a bit of difference. He was ashamed of it now, after Lupin’s lecture, but he knew in that place once again, he would’ve done the same thing. He shrugged, conceding. The more he argued, the more points Snape would score.

“That’s it,” Snape finished. “There’s food in the kitchen. Don’t eat me out of house and home, if you can help it. You’ll have a set of tasks in the potions lab to complete by dusk every day, and I happen to know you have plenty of reading to do before Autumn, which you will no longer be able to complete at your home. That should be plenty to keep you busy.”

Harry truly couldn’t decide if it was better or worse than the Dursleys’. He nodded, saying nothing, and tried not to look surly.

“If you’re going to just sit there looking surly, you may as well go set up your things,” Snape snapped. “I have my own work to do. I will be by to clean the other materials out of the study in a few hours.”

 

*                      *                      *

 

The steps creaked as he descended to the cellar. Here, the house at last resembled a wizard’s dwelling. The electric lights in the rest of the house were replaced by torches, casting a steady yellow glow from their iron sconces over the cement walls. There was an immediate sense of dank, a wet-earth smell that seeped in from the walls, and a darkness. Overall, the feeling was much like being back in the Potions dungeons. Harry sighed and looked around as he stepped through the open doorway at the bottom of the stairs. The potions lab was … different. The room was reminiscent of a dungeon, but the neat shelves along the side, labeled carefully bottle by bottle by jar, the counters lined with knives, calipers, cutting boards, kettles, and flasks on drying racks, were clean, neat, and well-kept. The island down the center looked rather like a blacksmith’s shop, with a fireplace underneath each of the three cauldrons, though only one was lit.

There was a noise like several stones clattering together, on one of the counters, and Harry jumped; when he’d collected himself, feeling a bit foolish, he walked over to see a folded note rattling back and forth of its own accord.

_The bowtruckle fangs need to be drained of venom; there should be three full vials when the batch is done. In addition, the dried Blasting Bear-blossoms must be shredded (NOT powdered, and if you can’t tell the difference, go and get your book), and the chokecherry pits cracked and squeezed for extract._

Harry sighed, set the note aside, and cast about for the bowtruckle fangs – a large pot, full of half-inch long ivory points. He barely remembered how to de-venom them, and with a groan, set back up the stairs for his book.

When he’d finally finished, his shoulders were sore from the squeezing, his thumb pricked in several places where the scalpel had slipped on the petals, and his nostrils stinging from the fumes of the bowtruckle venom. He put a cap on the last vial of chokecherry extract, stood, stretched, and trudged upstairs to get something in his stomach.

The house was nearly dark, and with a start, he realized it was only an hour or so to sunset. The jobs had taken him almost all day! Snape must have planned this – he ground his teeth. The bastard still didn’t trust him – he obviously meant to keep him occupied every minute of every day, so he wouldn’t have time to get a letter to Hermione or Ron. As if he was just bursting to tell them that he was staying with Severus Snape, the bloody head of Slytherin! He cast about in the cupboards for a moment, spied a loaf of bread, and set about putting together a sandwich. Halfway through, he heard footsteps on the back stairs. _Fuck_.

He dropped the knife in haste, then picked it back up, scrambling to tie the bread back into its bag and put the cheese away before—

“What are you doing, boy?”

Heart racing, Harry turned, carefully obstructing the knife and sandwich with his body. “I, er, nothing, sir.” He hadn’t been caught stealing food from the kitchen in years, how could he have been so—

Snape’s cold gaze made it clear he didn’t believe a word. He pushed brusquely past Harry and stared down at the counter.

“I don’t appreciate being lied to in my own house, Potter. I will ask once more. What are you doing?”

Harry took a deep breath. “Sorry, sir – just making dinner, I’m sorry.”

Snape stared at him for another moment. “Yes, I see that. Was there any particular reason you felt the need to try to conceal it from me? Taking griffin feathers with your cheese these days, are you?”

“No, sir.” Harry fought the urge to back out of arms’ reach and hang his head. “Just instinct, I guess.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could pull them back.

A scowl crossed the professor’s face, and he reached past Harry to pull the loaf of bread back out of the cupboard. “Yes, I’m sure the instinct to hide your many illicit activities from a professor will be difficult to break. You could, you realize, fix this problem by not embarking on them?”

Not waiting for an answer, Snape spread two slices of bread on the counter and turned away, pulling a slab of meat out of the refrigerator. With a few deft movements, he had four slices, two of which he put down on the cutting board next to Harry’s bread. A few moments later, it was joined by a few slices of tomato, onion, and lettuce. Snape’s sandwich included a mysterious-looking brown sauce, but he swept out of the kitchen without adding any to Harry’s, and Harry waited until he heard the man settle in the next room to start cleaning up. He had most of the counter cleared off when another shadow fell across his shoulders.

“What are you doing?”

He carefully swept the crumbs into one hand and tilted them into the sink. “Cleaning up, sir,” he replied, “obviously.” He could feel Snape glaring, disdainful, behind him.

“There’s no need to be so childish, Potter.” And he swept away. He’d finished his dinner and disappeared by the time Harry took his own sandwich out into the other room.

  

*                      *                      *

 

As he finished the sandwich, he looked up to see Snape standing at the foot of the stairs, arms folded. If tapping a foot impatiently hadn’t been beneath him, Harry thought, he would have been doing that, too. He hastily swallowed the last bite, stood, and ducked into the kitchen to wash up. As he stepped through the door, the plate vanished from his hands, and he nearly tripped in surprise.

“Mr. Potter, if you don’t mind, I do not actually have all night.”

Harry turned, catching himself before an expression of irritation slipped out. “You – should I go and grab the book, then?”

Snape almost looked affronted. “Certainly not. I told you, the recipe you were using was subpar, not nearly as efficient as it should have been. Any fifth-year student could have written that recipe, provided they paid half a care to theory in class. I use a superior edition.”

And with that, he swept around the corner and down the stairs, leaving Harry to follow the sound of his footsteps. –and of his voice, Harry realized with a start, as he had continued the lecture without looking back or waiting. Harry scrambled to catch up, nearly crashing down on him as he stepped into the dun—basement.

“So, with that in mind, where would you say the potion is tonight, in comparison with your own?”

Harry stared at him, and after a moment, shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “I didn’t hear most of that.”

Again he was favored with an irritable glare. “Ah, yes, as usual you have far better things to do than listen to those who are trying to help you learn. Perhaps you’d rather I simply let you off for this entire exercise?”

“No! I only meant—”

“Then _listen_! I am not in the habit of repeating myself for errant children!” Severus gestured at the door, which slammed shut behind Harry. “If you truly care about your father’s friend, as you claimed, stop acting like a child,” he snarled. “I took this obligation on—”

“To piss off my aunt,” Harry cut him off. “I saw the way you looked at her.” The potions master stared at him, eyes sparkling dangerously. “You hate her. This wasn’t some selfless… thing, you did it because Dumbledore wanted you to, and because you wanted to get back at Aunt Petunia!”

Snape took a step forward, putting him uncomfortably close to Harry, who suddenly had to bend his neck to look up at his professor’s angry, pale face. “Mr. Potter,” he said, quietly, rage making the voice deadly still, “I suggest you hold your tongue on my personal motivations, for once. You are in entirely over your head, and as usual, you have no idea what you are speaking of. I have taken you into my _home_ , with the understanding that you were desirous of a workspace, that you perhaps had gotten more serious about your studies. Instead, I find you prying, inattentive, and rude – as I should have expected.”

There was a pause, as he waited for Harry to say something foolish or hot-tempered, but Harry shook his head.

“Then, if you—”

“—twelve days.”

Snape paused, looked at him with a frown. “Where did you come up with that?”

He shrugged. “You said your version was more efficient. Unless it breaks Adriacia’s Law, it can’t be more than four days ahead of mine. But if it’s less than three days, you wouldn’t have mentioned it, because that you could do that by just changing the Amanita for Trefoil Scabula in the formula I was using.”

He looked at Harry for a moment, then turned away and walked towards the cauldron at the back. “It’s at ten days,” he said. “I expect you to take notes. Next month you will brew your own batch alongside mine.”

Harry expected the explosion at any – and every – moment throughout the lesson, awaiting a shout of rage, a dismissal, even a hex or a cuff across the ears. None came. Snape was ruthlessly efficient, a vicious taskmaster, but the personal attacks he had come to expect never materialized. It was as if, without an audience, there was no point. He spent most of the lesson tensed, waiting anyway. The fallout always appeared sooner or later.

 

*                      *                      *

 

The next day was much like the first, and the next, and the next, and the next. Finally, about halfway through his captivity – training, something like that – Harry had a break in Potions work. He wasn’t sure if Snape had simply run out of ingredients to prepare, or forgotten to give him a full day’s work, or what. He finished skinning the roots laid out on the table by afternoon, and went upstairs to sit down. Snape was on the upper floor, he could hear the motions and footsteps – after a moment listening to confirm it was only one person, he sat down in one of the armchairs. A moment later, he remembered he was supposed to be doing class readings. If Snape came downstairs and saw him lounging, he’d probably remember some Potions-related task, or set him at reading, or something. Better to start now. He groaned inwardly and went upstairs to grab the book of Transfiguration McGonagall had assigned – he didn’t think he could stand another Potions volume right now.

He was halfway through the second chapter, an explanation of theory of space and matter that he was sure would never come up in class, when a sudden creak of floorboards behind him made him jump several inches and cringe, nearly dropping the book.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Snape said, but Harry was fairly sure that was a smirk on his face as he leaned over. “Have you finished the ingredients?”

“Yes!” Harry snapped. “I finished early today, so I thought I’d get some reading done. That alright with you?”

The Potions professor looked at him, nostrils flaring. Harry wondered if he should duck, but Snape only said, scathingly, “You’re reading a textbook?”

“Er… yes.” He flipped the cover, holding his place with a finger. “I don’t think they write many Transfiguration theory _novels_.”

This time, the professor raised an eyebrow. “You don’t take notes when you read?”

Harry felt the beginnings of a blush appear on his ears. “No. I—I remember it just fine without them.” Snape stared at him, and Harry knew he was remembering the first day of first year, when Snape had grilled him on parts of the book to no avail. The blush deepened.

His voice dripped with sarcasm as he drawled, “Oh, do you, now.”

Defiantly, Harry glared back up at him over the top of the sofa. “Yes. I do.”

“What is the connection between mental application of physical space and the discipline of Apparation?”

It had been on the last page, he knew it had, he could _almost_ picture the sentence, he closed his eyes and thought, concentrating… “It… the mental map…” he trailed off. When he opened his eyes, Snape was still standing there, a sneer written across his face and his wand in his hand. He flicked it, and a scroll of parchment dropped into Harry’s lap, followed by a quill.

“It’s no wonder your marks are always abysmal,” he said, turning away. “You clearly have the study skills of an alley cat. Notes, Potter.”

With a sigh, Harry flipped back to the beginning of the book, lay the scroll of parchment across the arm of the chair, and started to reread the book.

 

*                      *                      *

 

“What are you doing?” The question came not at a shout, nor with a slap, but startled, perhaps confused, and suspicious. Harry looked up, cringing. Home instincts warred with Hogwarts impulses, over the course of a split second, and his response was correspondingly confused.

“I—er, sweeping.”

Snape stared at him for a moment. Finally, he shook his head. “Why?”

After one week of following Potions instructions, keeping to himself, obeying orders, staying out of the way, and managing a mostly peaceful co-existence, this simple question somehow flummoxed Harry. He stared back.

“I, uh… Er,” he stammered, pulse hammering in his veins. “I just, it was, I thought I… should?”

Immediately, this flipped something in the Hogwarts professor’s mind. He narrowed his eyes, reached out, and snapped the broom away from Harry. Waving his wand up and down it, never taking his eyes off Harry, he muttered incantations under his breath and tapped it in several places. Finally, he thrust it back into Harry’s hands.

“What are you really doing with it?”

Harry shook his head, bewildered, and took half a step back. “Sweeping!”

“Do not lie to me, Potter. Out with it!” He raised his wand.

“I—I was just sweeping!”

Snape started to say something else, but before he’d gotten the word out, the doorbell rang, and Harry froze in place. As Snape turned away, something cold and frightening in his eyes, Harry scrambled for the invisibility cloak and got it over his head. He crept towards the staircase, as quickly as he could without making noise. When he’d gotten halfway up the stairs, nearly out of sight, he stopped on an impulse, and watched. Snape had taken his time walking towards the front door, but after another minute, he opened it. A tall, balding man stepped through, his remaining hair iron-grey, his reddish face scarred and pocked, his brown eyes cruel and piercing. Harry pressed himself close to the wall, taking the shallowest, quietest breaths he could manage. He wondered idly if there was a potion to stop you from needing to breathe for a period of time.

The man said something to Snape that he didn’t catch, and Snape replied in oily tones.

“Look, Severus, I’m just telling you for your own good. Lucius and Triton aren’t going to be pleased if it does, but what can I do?” His cold smile glinted, belying his words. Snape shrugged.

“I know my own role, and my own powers, Franz,” he said, more abruptly this time. “You do what you want. You certainly did last time.”

Franz, if that was his name, snarled something unintelligible in reply. “You know why I’m really here,” he growled. “Out with it.”

Snape raised his wand and Summoned a small jar of grey liquid, streaked with red. He handed it to the other man, who dropped a handful of coins into his hand; Harry did not see where he pulled them from. He tucked the jar into his robes, turned, and left without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, and at a gesture from Snape, the deadbolt locked as well.

Several long moments passed in silence, save for Harry’s heartbeat and Severus Snape’s long, hissing breaths. Finally, he turned to the staircase and slashed furiously at the air. Harry felt the cloak fly up, and he slipped on the stairs and fell to one knee.

“Insolent whelp!” Snape spat, stalking forwards. “I told you specifically to stay out of sight!” He bore down on Harry, visibly furious. “Were your ears stopped up when I told you the first time, Potter? The second?” Not waiting for an answer, he stopped, as Harry pulled himself back upright. “Or did you simply decide the rules, as usual, need not apply to yourself?”

Harry bit his tongue, as usual – he didn’t really have a good answer anyway. He finally opened his mouth to manage an “I'm sorry, sir,” but as soon as the first syllable emerged, his world went dark, and everything spun out of control.

He was free-falling... or, no, he was floating, hanging – his robes were falling – he struggled in panic, dark heavy cloth stifling the movement of his limbs and shutting out his head as the sense of vertigo threatened to overwhelm him. After a few moments' struggle, his robes fell in a heap to the ground, and his shirt – too large, despite the repairs he'd done – flopped down, exposing his midriff and threatening to follow his robes. He grabbed at the hem, bunching it up in the back, but it slid over his head and dropped out of reach anyway. Reason finally broke through his instincts, and he understood. He was hanging upside down, suspended by his ankle, and Snape was holding his wand at one side, watching him.

He'd half expected to be jinxed, knowing that he was off Hogwarts' ground, not allowed to use his own wand, and thus completely powerless – even moreso than usual. His stomach fluttered in his chest, and he fought the heady rush as the blood swam behind his eyes.

“Nothing to say for yourself, boy?”

After a long moment, Harry shook his head, not trusting himself to open his mouth. Snape's face was shuttered, watching him twist – literally.

Abruptly, he flicked his wand, and Harry dropped to the ground, too fast to react beyond throwing his arms ahead. A split second before he hit the ground, everything stopped, and the room spun rapidly around him; a moment later, the ground was under his feet, but he crumpled, dazed and slightly nauseous, to the floor. He lay there in a dazed heap for a long moment, cold and terrified, and worse, guilty – hating himself for the fear, the guilt, the everything. Nevertheless, he didn't move outside of the heaving breaths to get his wind back, just held perfectly still in the heap he’d fallen into.

He had no idea how much time passed before the hem of a black robe came into view. Long, thin fingers seized his chin and forced his head up, to stare into the deep black eyes of his tormentor. Snape's gaze bore into his, leaving him completely exposed; he could feel the professor searching him, somehow, and shivered as memories floated unbidden in his consciousness – the confrontation with Pettigrew – the decision to brew Remus's potion – his treasured potions book, and fights with Hermione over it – the first few classes with Snape, and that desperation to do better, to earn something more . . . sweeping the floor . . . stopping halfway on the stairs. . .

“I'm sorry, Professor,” he managed, finally, when he'd got enough breath back to speak. Was this what Snape would do in detentions, if he could get away with it?

Those fathomless black eyes flicked over his head, then back at him. “Fool,” Snape said, finally. “Your apologies are meaningless. You have no idea what you risked.”

For a brief moment, anger welled up in his chest – it was so _unfair_! Nothing he did ever pleased the man!

Before he said a word, Snape released his chin and stood, looking down on him with cold fury. “If you ever do that again, Potter, I will do far worse than send you back to your aunt’s. And you will get no recompense from Albus Dumbledore.” The black robes turned, swished across the floor, and vanished from his field of vision. “He has placed you entirely in my power for the summer. Do not test me.”

Harry pulled himself up, slowly regaining his breath, and grabbed for his shirt immediately, his face red as the humiliation of it all set in. He pulled the shirt over his head and tugged his robes over it, then followed Snape from the room, shutting the door behind him.

 

*                      *                      *

 

He spent the rest of the days quietly, reading mostly in the converted study, penning imaginary letters to Ron and Hermione, wishing he could attach one to Hedwig. Outside of the Wolfsbane lessons, Snape said very little to him. There was a cold tension in his bones, and he found himself jumpy and nervous most of the time – he realized towards the end of the week that he was waiting for someone to snap. Waiting for Snape to hex him (again), or thrash him, or …something. But nothing happened, and so the knot of tension in the pit of his stomach only got tighter.

It stood only to reason, then, that he felt a sense of relief when Severus Snape swept up the stairs and knocked brusquely on the door. The knocking took him by surprise, and he was startled when Snape knocked again a few moments later. Shaking his head, he jumped up and opened the door.

“Er – yes, professor?”

Snape looked at him for a moment; his gaze then traveled up, scanning the room behind him, as if looking for evidence. Finally, he looked back down at Harry. Harry waited for him to say something, but he just sighed and pushed the door open.

“You aren’t packed yet?”

He frowned. “I thought I was leaving everything here. ‘All your belongings will be forfeit,’ didn’t he say?”

“He meant magical belongings, obviously.” Snape turned. “We will be leaving in one half-hour. Be packed and ready by then.”

As he stalked down the stairs, Harry glanced around at the room. But… all his stuff was magical; what else would he have taken? Dudley’s broken toys? Anything that wasn’t deemed dangerous by his aunt and uncle would have been Dudley’s, and he would have been stealing. But he could picture Snape’s face if he walked down the stairs with nothing but the small bag of clothes after that conversation, so he unfolded them, hastily unpacked his suitcase, and tossed half of them in. Two bags should be enough. He gave the suitcase another once-over, making sure he hadn’t left anything magical in, and shrugged his bag over his shoulder.

Snape was sitting in the threadbare sofa by the bookcase, and he looked up as Harry came down the stairs. “Let me see your bags,” he said, standing.

Harry, heart unreasonably pounding, handed over his suitcase and bookbag. Snape’s wand lit up with a soft orange glow as he passed it slowly back and forth over them. It flared slightly in a few places, before a yellow glow burst out of the tip. Snape gave him a caustic look and flicked the wand at the suitcase pocket. The zip opened slowly, and a piece of straw about two inches long floated out. With a sigh, Snape plucked it out of the air.

“Oh no,” Harry muttered before he could stop himself. “A straw!”

Snape tossed the straw aside with a sneer. “Can you truly say my caution is so unwarranted, Mr. Potter?”

Harry met his gaze for a long moment, and looked away. Certainly the thought had crossed his mind, to slip his wand into the suitcase. It was a heavy blow to be without it for even a few weeks.

“It was this time,” he said.

Snape didn’t return the sally. “Let’s go.”


	3. The Doldrums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry's summer continues, more or less according to plan.

There were four letters from Ron and Hermione, which he found in an envelope, duct taped shut, inside a metal chest with a heavy padlock, which was also duct taped shut. It took the work of an afternoon (and a few blows from the hammer in the shed) to get it open, but he did. They started normally, then grew concerned when he had not replied. The last was an offer to come and rescue him, which made his heart do a small double-beat. It took him a long time to figure out how to reply. He couldn't explain where he was, or what had happened, but he had to tell them he had not simply been ignoring them. They already knew about the Wolfsbane potion, so he supposed it would make the most sense to tell them he'd been caught with it and had to lay low for a while. With a heavy twinge of guilt, he wrote that his aunt and uncle had been so angry they'd sent him to summer school for the last two weeks of every month. Finally, he set it aside on his windowsill, figuring he would send it off with the next owl that arrived. He tried a similar tactic with Sirius, explaining he was fine at the summer school – after all, it was away from the Dursleys, which was as well as anyone could hope for. If he’d told Sirius that he was spending half his summer with Severus Snape, his godfather would have a heart attack.

Predictably, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had become obsessed with knowing his whereabouts at all times, and there was now a padlock on his bedroom door with a heavy chain, in the same place it had been last year – without the bars on the windows. He was only locked in at night, after supper; the rest of the day, it was chores and avoiding Dudley as usual, with a bonus of having his entire room inspected by Petunia every few days, to make sure he hadn’t somehow obtained more potions ingredients, or wasn’t trying something sneaky. Harry seriously contemplated working on his homework and leaving the notes around, but he didn’t remember enough exercises without his books. Hermione could’ve helped him, but wouldn’t, now; she would probably be insufferably smug over the Wolfsbane incident.

The worst part, probably, was that he’d lost any edge he’d had over Dudley over the summer. Getting in trouble with “his own kind” had led Dudley (who’d somehow slept through the entire incident, and heard about it later from his parents) to believe he’d lost his protectors. Not entirely correct, but… well, not wrong, either. Anytime he could catch Harry out – especially when he was in a bad mood, losing at his video games – he made a point of reminding him of this. Knocking him over, stepping on his hands, kicking his feet out from under him… it was worse when Piers was around. Harry wondered at some point if Petunia and Vernon hadn’t noticed, approved, or simply didn’t care. In the end, it didn’t matter. He avoided Dudley and Piers as much as possible while still making sure his aunt and uncle could find him before they panicked and shut him away again, and counted the days until the end of summer.

Weekends were the worst. Vernon and Petunia were both home, and Vernon was far more thorough in his inspections of Harry’s room, throwing everything into a pile on the floor, turning up the mattress, rooting through the closet, even holding Harry up against the wall and roughly patting him down, turning out his pockets. Dudley watched, of course, gleefully delighting in the destruction of any privacy Harry might have held onto. When Vernon had finished and stomped off, Dudley usually walked in after and amused himself pushing Harry around and mocking him for a few minutes, before he got bored and wandered off, leaving Harry to tidy his room up again.

Of course, of _course_ , it had to be a Friday evening, most of the way through July, when he was staring at the clothes scattered around his room and wiping the last of the blood from his nose after Dudley had pushed his head into the wall, and had only just begun to pick things up and hang them in the closet again…

“I really don’t understand why you feel this compulsion to waste my time, Potter. Do you own a calendar?”

He turned around; Snape stood in the doorway, nearly filling the space, his arms folded. His eyes cast disdainfully about the room, and he shook his head. “So the saint of Gryffindor House lives like some sort of rodent over the summers. Charming.” The sarcasm practically dripped from his voice as his eyes finally landed on Harry.

“When you’re finished packing, come back down to the drive, and we will leave immediately.” Not waiting for an answer, Snape vanished into thin air, as quietly as he’d come. Clearly, he had no intention of running into Petunia this time.

It was with a sense of profound relief that Harry threw his clothes into the bag and suitcase again, ignoring the turned-over mattress. Snape’s house might be uncomfortable, dingy, and filled with a tense silence most of the time, but he would certainly take that over another two weeks with the angry and frightened Dursleys. He closed the bags, glanced over the room one more time, and clattered down the stairs, nearly slamming headfirst into Vernon.

“Where d’you think you’re going, boy?” Vernon growled.

He took a step back. The door was just a meter behind his uncle. If he could even just distract him for a moment…

“The moon is waxing,” he explained. “Remember, I’m supposed to go with Professor Snape for the last two weeks of every month…? To get out of your hair?”

Vernon glared at him. “A likely story! And where is he, if that’s where you’re going? You don’t expect me to just let you wander off like this, do you?” His finger shook in Harry’s face threateningly. “I haven’t forgotten that you nearly killed us all last time!”

“He said to come out to the drive,” Harry said desperately, pointing, “So if you want to just look, I’m sure he’ll—”

And, as Vernon turned and opened the door, Harry ducked beneath his outstretched arm and slid out the narrow opening, skidding his knee on the front steps. With an enraged bellow, Vernon grabbed for him, then stopped as the tall, dark figure in the shadows stepped forward, and Harry half-fell, half-leapt out of reach. A strong hand grasped his shoulder and yanked him upright.

“I don’t see why everything must be so _dramatic_ with you,” Snape grumbled, as the world spun like a top, and everything dissolved into blackness.

 

*                      *                      *

 

He’d forgotten how preparing potions ingredients all day made his arms and wrists… and shoulders… and back… ache. Nonetheless, it made the day go by. Without leaving the dungeon more than once, he got the berries shrived, the beetles crushed, the roots shredded and powdered and skinned and the blisterpods drained and the leaves chopped, and the sprigs and branches hung for drying. By the time he was finished, Snape was coming down the cellar stairs. He walked to the basin on the far end of the room to wash his hands.

The potions master looked mildly surprised to see him there already, but said nothing as he went to wash his own hands.

“Are you ready to begin?”

Harry nodded.

“Then tell me, Mr. Potter. What is our first step?”

He thought a moment. “Well, for me it was the base, it’s Djebli’s Start. To brew that from start, you need oil of Barberry, with a pinch of powdered staghorn and a vial of drakeweed sap. Heated to… bubble, but not to a full boil, until the smoke takes on a blue-green hue. I bought it readymade, though.”

Snape glanced at him. “Why do you know how to make it, if you bought it bottled?”

“I thought it would be useful,” he shrugged. “And even if I wasn’t going to use it, I needed to know what was in it… just in case. In case something went wrong.”

With a sardonic look, Snape left that opening alone and walked along the shelf. “We are not making the formula you used, and so we will start with Stockwell’s Concoction. Do you remember the start for that one?”

Harry shook his head, realized Snape was not looking at him, and replied aloud, “No, sir.”

“Write this down; I am not repeating it.”

He scrambled for parchment and quill, and took notes feverishly as Snape dictated. When he’d finished, there were two cauldrons, side by side.

Snape gestured to one. “You will make this batch alongside mine. Next month, I will expect you to make it yourself.”

Harry swallowed, then nodded. It was a strange mixture of pride, exhilaration, and terror. If he screwed up… but he wouldn’t. He’d know it by then.

The night went, altogether, rather smoothly. Harry was tired from the day’s work, but somehow that seemed to focus his mind. The basement took on a sharp-edged quality, as if a spotlight had crept into the air itself. When he and Snape, who was somehow multitasking three or four large cauldrons of other brews, finished the potion and headed upstairs, the two cauldrons were identical. He fell into the makeshift bed with a fulfilled exhaustion, and a small smile was fixed on his face as his eyes closed. Soon, he’d be able to make the potion himself. Remus would never have to suffer through the full moon as long as he lived.

It wasn’t until the next morning as he was making tea and slicing a piece of bread that Snape, reaching over his shoulder for the jam cupboard, glanced down and frowned as if something had just occurred to him.

“What did you eat yesterday?”

Harry blinked, the question surprising him from a sleep-muddled state. “I, er, what?”

Snape sighed and picked up a cup of tea. “It wasn’t a particularly difficult question, Mr. Potter.”

“I don’t think I did,” he admitted, automatically putting the butter and bread away as he finished pouring tea. “I was busy after the morning, and got up too late to make something.”

The potions professor paused on the kitchen threshold. “Foolish. In the future, avoid doing complicated brewing work on a day’s empty stomach,” he said. “By some stroke of luck, you didn’t destroy anything yesterday – that we know of – but a lack of concentration caused by any amount of physical malady will bring on disastrous consequences in a potions lab.”

Harry honestly hadn’t noticed – he’d taken to skipping dinner on odd days when Petunia was in a worse mood than usual, finishing his cleanup and going upstairs early to avoid anything extra, snagging any leftovers while washing the dishes afterwards. And it hadn’t really impacted his concentration, anyway. Snape said nothing more, though, only disappeared through the open door. Harry heard him climbing the stairs, and sat down in the study with a book, lost in thought.

 

*                      *                      *

 

The next time the doorbell rang was three days later. Harry was behind the house, carefully arranging strange-looking rocks around a small – well, not an herb-garden. An ingredients-garden, he supposed. There was some kind of technique to it, something to do with runes, arithmancy, charms… he had no grasp on it whatsoever, he had to admit, but there were explicit instructions, and he was following them.

The doorbell must have been charmed somehow, because he heard it ring as though he’d been standing right next to it. His heart thudded in his chest, and he stared around the yard in panic. Outside of a rhododendron and a small, snake-branched tree, there was no cover, and if he tried to get upstairs, his steps would be too loud. He fumbled for the invisibility cloak, then flung it over his shoulders, sprang towards the back fence, and vaulted over it, crouching well below the slatted boards. The alley he found himself in was empty, except for a scraggly-looking orange tomcat, who must have heard him, for it stared suspiciously in his direction for a few minutes.

Harry stared towards the house, thought a moment, and crept as silently as he could down the alley, until he was two or three lots away. He could see a rundown park on the end of the street, but the overgrown bushes that provided the only cover were too far away to reach, so he settled for crouching between a pair of dustbins, the cloak covering every part of him.

Several moments went by before Harry considered the point that he had no idea whatsoever how he would know when it was safe to go back. He groaned aloud, then let his head rest against the fence. He was still sitting there, thinking, when he heard two raised voices arguing close by. _Shit!_ And after all the trouble he’d gone to avoiding spying, this time—wait. He tilted his head, trying to get a fix on the other voice; one was definitely Severus Snape.

“This is utterly ridiculous! I am not answerable to that _oaf_!” A door slammed. Footsteps, another voice, less audible.

“…your idea of… not suggesting that… my business too!”

“Potter, take the cloak off.” A lengthy pause.

Harry stood, utterly confused. He turned back toward Spinners End. From a standing position, he could see over the fence, the top of the snake-looking tree, half the rhododendron, and two men, one in black, the other in a patched grey coat. He walked back towards the house, frowning as the voices became clearer—

“Remus, I do. Not. CARE what he thinks.” Snape stared around the yard again. “I swear he was out here. Damn the boy, where has he gone?” He sighed. “Because of the… delicate situation of my entanglements, he has been told to stay out of sight, when there are visitors.”

Remus Lupin, as Harry could now see, was with him. He stood by the back door, looking irritated. “Severus, there’s no reason to shoot the messenger. He’s only worried, and you must admit you have a record of a certain… animosity, where Harry is concerned. I know he takes after James, but—”

“He does not!” Severus snapped, pulling out his wand. “Potter, if you don’t get visible this instant, I will simply _accio_ your cloak, and you with it!”

Harry realized the cloak was still over his head, and abruptly yanked it off, staring over the fence with a startled expression that mirrored Remus Lupin’s face. He tossed the cloak over the fence, but in his confusion, misjudged the height of the fence and sprawled over the ground as he vaulted back into the yard. He was pulling himself back up when Remus rushed across the yard to embrace him.

Snape was giving them both a sour look. Venom dripped from his voice as he folded his arms. “Potter, your godfather just _happened_ to hear about this arrangement. I can’t _imagine_ how, can you?”

Harry frowned. “I told him the same I told Ron and Hermione, that my aunt and uncle sent me to summer school after the potion blew up. I didn’t think anyone was supposed to know.”

Snape’s expression clearly showed how little he believed this. “He’s convinced I’m mistreating you, and obtained the headmaster’s permission to send our test subject here to check up on you.”

Harry glared at him, mostly out of habit, and shrugged at Lupin. “I’m supposed to make it next month,” he explained.

“Sirius found out from Albus himself,” Remus finally broke in. “He was furious over your letter, Harry, and demanded permission to get you away from the Dursleys and waylay the summer school plan. Finally Albus told him you were perfectly safe, and he asked more questions, and Albus said it was with Severus, and he owled me and insisted I come look, to be sure you were safe.”

Harry almost wanted to be annoyed, but found himself obscurely pleased instead. It felt… good, to have someone looking after him. He grinned. “I’m fine, actually. It’s better here than at the Dursleys.”

Remus smiled, but looked skeptical. “No doubt, no doubt. Let’s talk inside for a few minutes – Severus, is that alright with you?”

Snape turned and held the door open with a half-bow, sarcastically. Harry felt a pang of guilt as he stepped through and leaned up against the counter. He reached up to rearrange the sleeve of his robe, which had snagged on a board as he’d jumped the fence, and Remus frowned and reached a hand over to stop him.

“What’s that?”

Snape stepped through the door and shut it hard, without looking in their direction. Harry glanced down at his arm, where Lupin was holding it, and shrugged.

“Oh, that’s nothing.” He went to pull the sleeve down, and Remus stopped him again.

“Harry. Please.” He turned, looking at Snape with a truly angry glint in his eyes. “Severus?”

Severus Snape crossed the room in two strides, stepped between them, and yanked Harry’s sleeve up to his collarbone. Harry cried out in surprise, and tried to jerk away, to no avail – both men were staring at the fading bruise on his upper arm and shoulder, in some shock.

“Harry,” Lupin finally said. “What happened here?”

Harry finally managed to pull his arm back, rolling his sleeve down to the elbow. He stared back and forth between them, confused. “That wasn’t here,” he said finally. “That was Dudley. We were just… he was just…” he trailed off. “We fight sometimes.”

Severus turned, looking at Lupin. “I suppose if we looked at him, we’d see similar bruises,” he said flatly. “Is that right, Mr. Potter?”

Harry looked away. “Er, yeah, probably,” he said uncomfortably. If he ever struck Dudley hard enough to bruise, Dudley would cry to Petunia, who would have shut Harry away for a week, and told Vernon when he got home.

“How often does this happen, Harry?” Remus finally looked down at him, dropping Snape’s gaze. “Er… fights, like this?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. Like… once, twice a week?”

Snape abruptly turned and stalked to the door, slamming it open. Lupin turned after him, calling “Severus, wait!” He followed Snape out, leaving Harry in the kitchen. He could only half-hear their conversation.

“…would never have … Petunia.” Snape.

Lupin, now: “For all we … you can’t… still worse than…”

“… thought …bloody _muggles_!”

Almost placating: “Not as… agree, certainly … go on…”

“…as if I … you thought … ” Snape’s voice rose so loud that Harry could hear it through the door. “What did he think, Remus?”

“…worried that … now, for …—”

“ _Fuck that_!”

“You … deny—”

Harry took a deep breath, walked over to the kitchen door, grabbed the handle, and yanked it open. “If you don’t mind,” he growled, “I’m still right here.”

Neither man turned to look at him. Neither wand was out, but it looked like a close thing; there was about three inches between the two wizards. Not for the first time, Harry got the feeling this was only partly about him.

“Harry,” Lupin said without moving, “It’s not normal to be covered in bruises all the time unless you’re playing some kind of contact sport. This is what Sirius was afraid of. He just didn’t suspect it would be your own family doing it.”

“Oh, he places a lot of importance on family, doesn’t he?” Snape snarled, finally straightening up. “Family would never let him down, would they?”

Remus grimaced faintly, and turned back to Harry. “Has Professor Snape hurt you in any way while you have been under his care?”

“No!” Harry shouted. He paused. “Well. The one time I was listening to one of the men who came to visit him, he…” he trailed off.

“Oh, for the love of…” Severus ran a hand over his face and stepped back, leaning against the wall as he looked back at Harry. “I tried to impress upon you the utter idiocy and danger of your position, as _the boy who defeated the Dark Lord_ , tiptoeing around one of his former supporters!”

“What did you do, Severus?”

“I pulled him bodily – yes, with magic – off the stairs, where he’d been spying, and onto the floor, where I told him he was a fool and that he’d be worse off next time.”

Harry remembered this as slightly more traumatic than that, but merely nodded, since it hardly seemed like a pressing matter now. Remus turned to him. “That seems …excessive, but not dangerously so.” He sighed, ran a hand over his face, and looked at Snape, his eyes blank. “Severus, I’m going to go and speak with the Headmaster, now.”

Snape walked over to the counter and pulled down a large pot. “It won’t do any good,” he said quietly. “He was d—” He stopped, looked at Harry, and half-shrugged as he turned back to the stove. “You’re welcome to try, but I have no desire to accompany you and waste both of our time. We need to start work earlier than usual today, it’s a complicated few steps tonight and tomorrow.” Over his shoulder, he added, “Mr. Potter, please finish the job you started outside.”

Harry turned to Remus. “Thanks,” he said. “I – I’m fine, really. It’s better here, in a lot of ways, but I’m fine. Tell Sirius I’m sorry I lied to him.”

As he stepped through the door, he heard Remus say “I apologize for assuming you were mistreating Harry, but you must admit, your record with…” the door shut behind him, and he walked back into the garden, kneeling between the herbs and the nearly-geometric blueish stones. It was an overcast day, but there was a hot, angry flush on the back of his neck the rest of the afternoon.


	4. Resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finishes the first batch, and another half-month of contemplation at the Dursleys follows.

“Do you see how the seeds don’t separate fully from the flesh of the fruit?”

“Yes, sir. Does it need to be scraped off?

“No. We’re not using the seeds, and the formula accounts for that loss. So long as all the seeds are removed, and none punctured to allow the inside to contaminate the flesh, it will serve. If you ever do need the seeds, you’ll have to be far more careful.” A pause. “And what is the purpose of adding the Brambletar fruit at this point, Mr. Potter?”

Harry continued to pare the fruit, thinking. “The Brambletar fruit’s properties are mainly a strengthening of charms in Dover’s fourth category, but they add a factor of energy to an indalbo reaction… and have a special interaction with Cedru—”

“If you were planning on coming to the point somewhere in that discourse, boy, you might keep in mind that Potions reactions do not wait for you to remember their meaning, and neither will I.”

“Sorry sir,” Harry replied. “Is it the factor of energy for indalbo?”

“No. Think, Potter, we are trying to lessen the power of an indalb-esque curse, and as long as you’re going to imitate Granger’s mind-numbing speeches, you should make an effort to imitate her study habits as well.”

Harry snorted before he caught himself, then frowned. Baited into making fun of Hermione, by Professor Snape… though he had sounded like her on a bad day, hadn’t he? He tossed the last fruit into the ceramic bowl, free of peel and seed, and looked down at the steaming cauldron, thinking, as Professor Snape took the bowl, scraped exactly half into the cauldron on his side of the counter (how did he manage to do it by eye like that?) and handed the remainder to him.

“The potion must include a charm in Dover’s fourth category,” he said finally, scraping the fruits in.

“The category is called aligatur,” Snape grumbled. “Only a novice would refer to it in the terms of Dover’s guides. And you are correct, at last. How was the aligatur formed?”

Harry sighed, looked down at his notes, and tried to remember what they’d done the previous four days. Before he’d gotten through, Snape pointed out that the pieces of fruit had certainly dissolved to the point where they needed to be stirred, and began to discuss the properties of the first two ingredients added after the first reaction. Harry tried to pay attention, matching the explanation to the notes on the roll of parchment.

By the time they left the cauldrons for the night, it was well past midnight, and Harry was suppressing a yawn as he followed Snape up the stairs. He stumbled on the stairs up to the living quarters, and Snape caught him by the shoulder, steadying him. An awkward silence ensued, and continued until they reached the top of the stairs and Harry reached for the door of the study.

He paused. “Sir?”

Snape turned, halfway down the hall to his own room. “Yes?”

“I really didn’t tell Sirius.”

“I know.”

“Thank you. For… for doing this. Teaching me to make the potion.”

Snape half-shrugged, continued walking. “The sooner you can make it flawlessly, the sooner I can stop making it,” he said. “Goodnight, Mr. Potter.”

The door clicked shut, and Harry ducked into his own room, stifling a head-splitting yawn.

 

*      *      *

 

The voices were quiet, but Harry heard them nonetheless. It was still early – before sunrise, even – and he hadn’t heard the doorbell or a knock. He lay there, wondering if he should risk making a noise to get the cloak. He couldn’t tell who it was, or what they were saying, but after several moments’ wondering, the tell-tale noise of a Floo fire disappearing, followed by a bright crackle of normal flames, dispelled his concern. He stared up at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. How dangerous was it for him to be here, really?

The only sound from the other room now was the persistent scratching of a quill on parchment, but he stayed awake until the view through the small, high window of the room began to lighten, then dressed and slipped downstairs. If he got the Potions work done early today, he might be able to relax later on in the afternoon. It had only been a few minutes when footsteps made him turn.

“Remus asked me to pass along his apologies,” Snape said. “Whatever for, I’m not certain, but he tells you that you will remain living with the Dursleys for the forseeable future.”

Harry blinked, and turned back to the kettle. “Er, thank you.” He frowned at the counter as he washed. What was the point of all that?

As if reading his mind, Snape walked past him and leaned against the counter. “He was surprised that Petunia allows you to be treated so roughly. His upbringing was rather different, and he disapproves of their philosophy.”

“Oh.” Still confused, Harry poured two mugs of tea and pushed one towards Snape. “You mean, letting Dudley hit me.” Something occurred to him, and he frowned. “You said – the night I botched the potion – you were upset that Uncle Vernon had broken my ribs. You know it’s not really like that, most of the time – right? They’re awful, but not like that.” He found his hand shaking a bit as he pulled the loaf of bread down from the cabinet.

Snape took the knife and bread from his hand abruptly. “Of course. Extenuating circumstances, with you starting a fire in a closet and an intruder in the house.” He deftly cut two slices and laid them out. “I assume, most of the time, it is more routine. Staying out of the way, paying attention to your guardians’ moods and whether they’ve had a drink. Unlike Remus, I am aware that teenagers survive the occasional bruise or scrape. If you were in serious danger, the Headmaster would have you removed from the house.” He grimaced. “Not that Black’s care would be much better for you in the long run, which I trust he knows.”

“Sirius wouldn’t hurt me!” Harry protested.

“Not intentionally,” the professor replied. “Probably. Unless he thought it would be funny.” His sneer was aimed at the knife, but it cut Harry to the quick nonetheless. “You have no idea what that fool is capable of, Potter. But the Headmaster is absolutely correct in keeping you away from him.”

“So you think it’s a miracle I’m not completely useless after living with Aunt Petunia for fourteen years, but I’d be worse off with Sirius Black, and you obviously can’t stand having me here.” Harry looked out the window, where a light drizzle of rain was slowly darkening the fence he’d vaulted over the previous day. “Maybe I should just snap my wand and go live with Hagrid.”

Snape rolled his eyes and spread a liberal amount of cheese onto the bread. “Don’t be melodramatic,” he snapped. “You’ll be fine wherever you go, boy. There are a thousand people looking out for you in the wizarding world, through no merit whatsoever of your own. You might think to be grateful for that.” He palmed the sandwich and swept out of the room, leaving Harry to put the kitchen back in order. He finished sweeping up, looked the place over one more time, and headed down into the basement to start the Potions work.

As usual, there was a note of instruction – Snape didn’t bother to enchant it anymore, since Harry knew where to look. He found himself needing to retrieve his textbook less and less often as the tasks became more familiar with time. Today, he barely had to think about it as he leaned on the table, selected a likely-sized bowl, and began attacking the asphodel with a mortar and pestle. His mind wandered as he filled the iron bowl, and he found himself wondering about Sirius and Snape.

After the last year, he had a hard time forgiving Snape for Lupin’s being sacked. But – if he hated Lupin so much, why keep making the potion? Harry knew there were other ways of dealing with werewolves. Silver shackles on iron chains. Goblins had special methods, but they were even crueler. He had done some research on this, with Hermione’s help – the potion was easily the best method. But Snape… hated Lupin, no doubt. Hated Sirius more – still. Had Sirius really been trying to get Snape killed? Or maybe just tried to get him turned into a werewolf, himself.

Much of it didn’t make sense. He finished the tasks for the day without having made any progress on why all the adults in his life still seemed to be tied up with one another in such complicated ways. He wondered, as he corked the last bottle, where he fit into the system of knots they’d left him.

 

*      *      *

 

The cauldrons stood next to one another, completely still. Harry was almost afraid to breathe. He cast a cautious glance sideways. Severus Snape stood there, eyes narrowed, looking almost trancelike. After several moments had passed, he stepped forward and looked down into the cauldrons. Harry hesitated, then followed.

A thin line of bluish smoke rose from both cauldrons, curling like candle-smoke. In almost every way, they were indistinguishable. But the silence in the room stretched to the breaking point as the potions master stared into their depths.

“You left too much time before stirring the aconite,” Severus finally said, “and the sulfur was not entirely purified – off by two degrees.” He turned on his heel and strode towards the shelves at the other end of the basement. Harry’s heart sank.

With a clink, Snape pulled a bottle down from the shelf, and it sailed through the air towards Harry, who caught it.

“Exactly to the etched line,” he called over his shoulder, as he headed for the stairs. “Vanish both cauldrons when you’ve sealed the bottle.” His footsteps faded up and away, leaving Harry staring forlornly at the cauldrons. He sighed, dipped the sterile ladle above the cauldrons, and poured the measure carefully into the bottle.

“Signum,” he muttered, drawing a closed circle over the bottle. The neck flowed outward, forming a tight round cap over the lip with a slight hissing noise. He set the bottle aside, vanished the potions, and trudged up the stairs.

“Will your aunt and uncle know you’re coming?”

Harry shrugged. “Probably not.”

Snape’s only response was a sigh. Harry put the bottle down on the table, next to where Snape sat looking over a scroll of parchment. When the silence stretched, he turned and headed up to the second floor to toss his things into the bag again.

He thought Snape might forgo the scan this time, but he ran his wand over Harry’s suitcase regardless before beckoning Harry over to disapparate. Bitter disappointment roiled in the pit of his stomach as the house was swallowed by darkness.

 

*      *      *

 

This time, neither Petunia nor Vernon said a word to him as he returned, and the summer returned to more-or-less normal, including Dudley and Piers chasing him around the yard for laughs, Vernon shaking his room down once every few days, and a lot of washing dishes and mowing the lawn between times. Harry spent much of the time mentally going over the potion. How had he missed on the sulfur purification process? How had he gone wrong with the aconite – easily, as Snape had reminded him over and over, the most dangerous ingredient in the potion? Would he ever be able to make this himself?

Deeper still, doubt gnawed at him in ways he didn’t like to think about. What if he had finished it on his own and sent it to Lupin, without Snape’s help? Could he have poisoned his father’s best friend? Probably, Lupin would have simply taken Snape’s dose, rather than Harry’s – after all, regardless of affectionate feelings, Harry was a student, and Severus Snape an accomplished Potions master.

The sound of a car door shutting jarred him out of his reverie. He hastily swung the pair of shears he’d been using to prune back up towards the hedge, and turned so he wasn’t visible from the back of the house. A few moments passed, and nobody seemed to be roaring out into the yard, so he breathed a sigh of relief and continued working. It would be another three days before the Wolfsbane potion would start up again. He wondered if Snape was still going to have him make it, or if they would make it side by side again, since his potion had been subpar. As another handful of leaves dropped to the ground, he wondered if he even wanted to make it himself. Would he be able to finish the potion at all without Snape looking over his shoulder? When he’d started the project, it had seemed so simple, despite Hermione’s misgivings. Follow the instructions to the letter. Make the potion. Send it to Lupin. Now, although he’d sworn he followed Snape’s instructions to the letter the entire time, it had still gone wrong, and he wasn’t at all sure this was possible anymore.

His misgivings only grew as the time shortened until the new moon. Several times, he contemplated finding a way to send Severus Snape a letter telling him not to bother, that since he obviously couldn’t do it, he might as well just wait the summer out. In the end, though, he never managed it – partly because he truly wanted to finish, and partly because every time he pictured telling Snape “I give up, I can’t do this, I’m not good enough,” something white-hot and unbearable wrapped around his chest. Rage, maybe; pride, more likely. Either way – he would stick it out.


End file.
